


Tea Party

by oloros



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Mother-Son Relationship, Sad feelings all around, Teaparties, Vague Infinity War spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26837542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oloros/pseuds/oloros
Summary: Preceding moments before his death, Loki shares a cold cup of tea with someone he once loved so much.
Relationships: Frigga | Freyja & Loki (Marvel)
Kudos: 11





	Tea Party

Oh, how he loved her.

Sitting across from him in a gorgeous purple gown, her thick golden hair braided back, each strand intertwined in a mesmerising display of artwork. She was sat primly in her seat, back flat against the head of the chair, her fingers neatly tucked through the handle of the teacup. Lips upturned in the faintest of smiles, so warm and forgiving, and creases at the corners of her eyes hinting to her unconditional affection.

“Loki,” she said, in a voice so soft it could make a Valkyrie weep.

“Mother,” Loki whispered. He was in a tattered and dirtied uniform, with messy, greased hair and bloodied lips. He stood at the opposite end of a bridge, where Frigga was proud within a luscious meadow and he was among the dead trees and the wilted flowers. “I missed you.”

It was so cold before: in the dark, all alone. It reminded him of the void, back when he’d fallen from the heights of the rainbow bridge, falling and falling for eternity until his skin was numb and his fall was cushioned by an overwhelming sensation of nothing.

A moat surrounded their little area, a polite fine-wood table with royal cloths and teacups embroidered with the finest amber. The darkness was patient and kind, allowing them to avoid its touch as the moon cast a brilliant cerulean beam over them. White roses snaked up the legs of the table, their stems spreading out down deep into the depths of the waters and surfacing on the other side. The whole land, as far as he could see, was blanketed with roses. White everywhere, as white as the doves circling above, as pristine as the palace floors and as beautiful as his mother. 

He wanted deeply to move closer to her then, to let her cradle him in his arms as she once had when he was young. He had a thousand questions to ask her, but he found he couldn’t speak. Not until words left her mouth first.

“How do you fare?” Frigga asked.

Loki’s brows knitted together and he looked around him. It was so serene that he felt unworthy, and as he turned to face his mother once more, he said, “I’m cold.”

“As am I.” Frigga turned her chin up and surveyed the moon. “But a fire would ruin the beauty, don’t you think? Sometimes we must put up with the cold.”

“No, I’m…” He paused. Silver-tongue as he was, he couldn’t find any words to describe his feelings. He couldn’t describe the unnatural chill that nipped at his ears and tapped at his nose. Not in any traditional language.

“Do you remember what I used to tell you, Loki?”

Searching, thinking, reminiscing. He nodded his head slowly. She spoke in a sing-song voice, “When the moon shines through your window…”

“…never close the curtains, because you know it chose you.” Frigga took a sip from her cup. There was no liquid in the cup, she was ingesting air. The cool, crisp air of the garden. 

She faded from sight as the bright glow from the moon faded. The darkness moved in its stead, blocking all from view. He reached out thin fingers to connect with his mother’s, to make sure she hadn’t left.

“Why did you close them?”

Loki frowned. “I’m… I’m not sure what you mean.”

Her hand left his grasp and her heard the perfect metal of her jewellery scrape across the tabletop. Her fingers caressed his cheek with a touch like fire, so so warm compared to everything else. He placed his own hand across hers.

“I wish there was more I could’ve done for you.”

A single candle materialised in front of them, a faint blue light in the darkness that allow him to better see her face. She seemed to be looking at him and through him at the same time – her mind in another world.

“Are you listening to me?” He asked, and she did not respond, only continued to speak.

“My poor, sweet son.” A thumb rubbed tenderly over his cheekbone. “The world hasn’t been kind, has it?”

Loki fought against the tightness swelling in his chest. He couldn’t bring himself to break away from the touch he had craved for so long. But she wasn’t listening to him, she couldn’t really _see_ him, she couldn’t _feel_ him or _hear_ him, she could only catch an essence of where he was, like a lonely spirit trying to connect from another world. There was a way for her to wake up, wasn’t there? There was a way he could let her know he was here.

“Stop,” he said, as a last final cry in an empty tunnel.

Unaware, she continued, “So alone… so scarred… deserted by the man who saved you, is that right?”

The white roses were turning a sickly grey, the thorns loosening around his legs, the water in which they were submerged becoming green with algae. Dead doves bobbed at the surface, with glassy eyes and stiff feathers. The candle was dimming, threatening to go out, threatening to take away his vision once more, now that the moon had abandoned him.

He clawed at her fake hand. “I don’t want to hear these words from you.”

It became clear to him then: who was the phantom in this situation. Who was the one who couldn’t really see, couldn’t really feel, couldn’t really heal. Who was truly the one watching a phantom try to connect from another world.

The touch faded along with the garden. It collapsed upon itself, crumbling around him like an ancient relic. Loki was no longer sat on a quaint chair, but rather against the gritty floors of a ship, with fire surrounding him and an immense pressure on his chest. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, he could only feel – and he could feel the cold hands of death stroking his legs, moving upwards until it engulfed his entire body. He had never died before… not completely. Not like this.

He was alone, wasn’t he? That pressure on his chest was false, as his mother had been.

He was always alone, and always cold.

Oh, how he missed her.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written for this fandom for about a year or so, but this was a WIP I started back then and wanted to finish.  
> I hope you enjoy.


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